Nineteen Eighty Four And Its Respective Fashions
by AdequateLexicon
Summary: America shocks and appalls England with his laughable 80s apparel. What is it about the 80s that's so sexy? Oneshot fluff.


Author's Notes: Incidentally, I plan on doing a 1984 story involving Hetalia. You know, an actual Orwellian 1984, not the one that had legwarmers and shoulder pads and all of that other fun stuff.

But no. I wrote this because it occured to me that America was probably insufferable to look at during the 80s. It was based off a phone conversation, as most of my stories usually are, and not only did we talk about how America was probably a pot head during the 60s, but that he was also probably dressed like a loon during the 80s. A fashionable loon, but still.

I personally love 80s fashion, so America's outfit was fun to come up with. I was going to add armwarmers and skinny jeans and legwarmers too, but decided against it because I thought it would sound too girly. So I chose a pink shirt, a headband, and...yeah, my quest for masculinity? Somewhat failed. Oh well.

Also, I would totally watch The Bruch Comrades. _Totally. _(Wouldn't anyone?)

PS: I suck at romantic stuff so I apologize for that. I tried to stay in character though, so even if it is awkward, at least with any luck it's awkwardness in character. That's my goal, anyway.

**Nineteen Eighty Four (With Leather Pants And Other Eighties Fashions)**

It was a warm, sunny day in April, and the clocks were striking twelve. England sat on the stone-cold park bench. For whatever reason, it was seemingly invulnerable to the sun's rays. He had just started to read the paper when he heard a voice.

"Hey! Hey, England!" 

England knew immediately that it was America calling his name, though he didn't particuarly want to turn around. "What is it?" he asked, not looking. "Turn around! I want you to see my outfit!" England sighed. America's outfits were often flashy, and now they were just getting ridiculous. It seemed only yesterday that he had been wearing bell bottoms, though those days were thankfully over with, it seemed. "Alright, but if I turn around and you're wearing something stupid, I swe-" 

He stopped midsentence. He didn't know if _stupid _was the right word to use, not really. He wasn't sure. His brain was having a hard time processing it.

America was wearing a pink shirt adorned with the phrase, "Frankie Says Relax," on it in. He was genuinely shocked to see it. "Frankie Goes To Hollywood" was a band whose origins were in fact British. Probably America didn't know this, or else he would have worn something else, no doubt. Then there was the purple headband that went around his forehead. _'What is with that?' _he thought to himself. Perhaps worst of all were the leather pants. They were-he couldn't accurately think of a way to describe them, much as he tried, until it occured to him that at some point he had stopped trying to come up with an adjective and started to just stare. He turned his head away, focusing instead on a small rock that was on the ground.

"What do you think? Do I look tubular?" England couldn't help but look at America again after that. "Tubular? Really? Is that the phrase you're using now?" America smiled, almost sheepishly. "It means 'awesome'," he offered, somewhat unhelpfully. "I figured from the context, I just-oh, never mind. Well, let's see. You're wearing a girl's accessory, a British T-shirt, and-those pants just defy description, I'm sorry. Try as I may, those hideous things just refuse to conform to any adjective I can supply." He really wasn't sure why he was being so harsh on America, more so than usual. Perhaps it was because his outfit was wholly idiotic. Or, said a quieter voice in his mind, perhaps it was because _something _about America's ridiculous get-up was somehow turning him on.

He continued to give a scathing review of America's outfit, though it was somewhat difficult to keep his mind thinking on the terms of anger. "A-and, the colors, they completely clash. And, I really wish I knew why you were wearing leather pants of all things. Wouldn't leather chafe horribly? And your shirt! It's pink! Girls wear pink! And need I remind you that wearing pants that tight is obscene and forces the public to have to see your, y-your _lower half of the body_ in all of its entirety, I mean for God's sake you might as well be naked, and-"

America cut him off. "I didn't know you hated my outfit so much, England. I guess I'm not surprised, though. Only someone as lame as you wouldn't love this outfit. It's just amazing, I mean seriously." England had no way of knowing whether America was genuinely offended, until he saw America crack a smile that was eerie somehow. "You know what your problem is?" America sat down next to (well, almost on top of, since the bench was small and America seemed to have no personal space bubble) England on the bench, which seemed even colder than it had before. England felt his face flush, but said nothing.

"Your problem is that you're a prude. That's it. Right there." Considering that America was so close that England could feel his breath in his ear even though he wasn't whispering, he felt that it wasn't so much that he was a prude but America was...something else entirely. "Oh, please. If I were really a prude, I probably wouldn't even talk to you." Again, America pretended to take offense. "Oh, your wit, your words, they, like, cut me to the bone," he said, taking on a Valley Girl accent and stretching out the word 'bone' so that it had three syllables. He put his hand on England's thigh. "Seriously, you're way too uptight. I bet you think my outfit is hella sexy and you're such a prude that you won't admit it, not even to yourself."

England rolled his eyes. "Yes, t-that's it, exactly. Really. I can hardly control the urge to jump your bones, right here, right now." He wondered how sarcastic his voice sounded. He decided it was dry enough. America laughed. "If I didn't know better I would think you were kidding," and he smirked as he said it. England scoffed. "Do you honestly believe that there is anything sexy about _that?_" he asked, gesturing to America's outfit.

"Yeah, I really do. I think you love my beast 80s outfit. And I'm gonna tell you why. I think you love that this girly headband I'm wearing because you're always telling me my hair's in my eyes and how sloppy that looks. I think you love my shirt because it totally references one of your weird-o Brit bands. I'm pretty sure you love my high tops. They're in your colors," and England glanced down. In point of fact, he hadn't noticed America's shoes. He ignored the weak joke (not only were they his color's, but America's colors too, as well as France's and even Russia's) America smirked again. "And I _know _you love these badass pants because, honestly, who wouldn't?"

And there it was. America had just given an in-depth analysis of why exactly England found the tacky 80s apparell to be so damn attractive. He had come up with better reasons than he could have likely come up with. It was almost like he had done it on purpose. But America rarely thought about others enough to know what they would like and actually apply it, so he shook the thought out of my mind.

"I will have you know that you are as wrong as wrong can be," said England. America didn't say anything for a while, but after a few minutes of semi-awkwardness he spoke. "Well, at least answer this for me. Cause, like, you at least owe me this." _'I don't owe you anything,' _he thought, and of course it probably showed on his face, but he stayed silent. "If you did think I looked good, would you even admit it? Like, not just out loud, but at all?"

A legit query, he lamented silently. But the answer was obvious. Of course it was. America had said it himself. He was a prude, wasn't he? So why would America ask a question to which the answer was so blatantly clear? "Of course not," he said finally. At this America rolled his eyes, which was an odd change of pace because normally England was the one with the _'You dumbass,' _look. Now it was the other way around. It occured to him that America's hand was still on his leg. He was drumming his fingers, which tickled a little, but he didn't move or make any effort to make him stop. It felt sort of nice.

"I've been doing research." England snorted. Research? That sounded like a lot of work for someone like America. "I've been watching about fifty movies that deal with this sort of stuff." _'What sort of stuff?' _thought England. He was vaugely worried about what exactly America was leading up to. He seemd oddly hesitant, which was deinitely unusual.

"I've been watching a bunch of movies, right? And they all say that...well, let me explain it like this. Basically, they all point out the hero can't _ever _get the girl unless he either stops being a dick or she gets a makeover, right? Which is totally ridiculous, not to mention impossible to apply to real life," England knew at once which movies America meant. They were popular movies about teenagers coming of age, getting into all kinds of romantically-fueled shenangians. Even if they didn't start with romance, they usually ended with it. They all had non-sequitor names like Beautiful in Blue, or The Brunch Comrades. He supposed the titles might have made more sense if he had finished the movies, but he never could.

"Don't get me wrong, I am dressed this tubular because I _am_ this tubular, okay? So don't get the wrong idea, because it's not like I'm trying to impress you or anything," There was a bit of a silence during which England kept his focus on the nearby small rock. He decided to name it Roland while he waited for America to speak. _'Roland, do you know what America is trying to say here?'_ he thought, as if 'Roland' could read minds or even do anything sentinent.

"Anyway, I dunno, I just tried to think about stuff you liked, and everything. I mean, I couldn't wear one of your fancy formal crap, you know that, but...anyway, I'm getting off track. I guess for some reason I wanted you to think I looked nice today. That's all." America kicked at the ground. England could feel him digging his fingernails into his thigh, though he wasn't sure if America was doing it on purpose or not. "You haven't cared about anything I've thought since..." He hesitated, and spoke again. "..I don't really know how long, but it's been a long time." For the second time that day, America rolled his eyes. _'You dumbass,' _his face said, and again Arthur wondered how exactly he was the dumb one. "I always cared what you thought, stupid." Arthur really wasn't sure if he was supposed to be offended or flattered.

He sighed. "Do you really want to know what I think of your outfit, America?" It had taken a lot of pride to ask that question. It would take a lot more nerve to actually tell him. America grinned. "Yes! Come on, you have to, I just poured my flippin' heart out to you, you don't have to!" Sighing, he began to speak.

"I think that your headband is feminine and highly idiotic, but I like how it keeps your hair back because I can see your eyes. Although I am not a fan of the color pink, I am inexplicably flattered that you're wearing a shirt featuring one of my bands. Your shoes aren't bad, in all honesty I hadn't really noticed them." He cleared his throat, focused intently on Roland, and said the next part quickly and under his breath. "I also think that while leather pants are an incredibly idiotic idea on paper, you seem to have made them work."

"Well, yeah, leather pants look good on everybody. I bet even you could pull them off." England coughed. "Right, well, some people probably shouldn't wear leather pants, ever." It was a rather weak attempt to change the subject. America just laughed. "Right, well what's important is I can. Not that they're particuarly comfortable. They stick to your ass and on days like this they're unbearable. So just think about that the next time you feel like complaining, because damn it, I did this for you." England couldn't help but laugh, too, and even though they both had other things to do (England had tons of paperwork that was caused by a methane gas explosion, and America had an aerobics class to attend) they both just sat on that not quite so stone cold bench. At some point America had put his arm around England, and he didn't object, and although neither admitted it, there wasn't anywhere else they wanted to be.


End file.
